


Smoke

by D3moira



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apocalypse, F/M, Fluff, Intimacy, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Romance, Smoking, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D3moira/pseuds/D3moira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth Greene doesn’t mind smoking as much as you may think. (A retrospective of Beth’s romances, her time in the ZA. A taste of Bethyl because I am the author.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

   Beth couldn’t say how or when she had picked up this habit. She thought back to Jimmy and herself, when they’d pinch just one cigarette from his mother’s pack. They would sit outside in the Georgian heat, sharing the cigarette like a kiss, fingers touching, knuckles knocking, lips meeting halfway. She only smoked when she was with him, and it was barely a taste. It meant that when they kissed, she wasn’t suffering through an ashen mouth while she could still taste the peach cobbler. She loved singing and sports, and cared deeply about how her skin and her teeth looked. She had seen all the packets, she knew the risks. It was a few little puffs, and a few too many kisses.

Mrs. Offerman would peek out to remind them that it was skeeter season. They would stub the cigarette out on the dirt by the roses, and ignore the smoke that had clouded above them. Mrs. Offerman always knew, but she never said anything to them. She would set some lemonade by them, prattling about the church function, or work. Sometimes she would gently brush Beth’s hair, and assure them it was a secret. Jimmy and Beth would watch the sky from his porch, hands looped together, and sometimes she’d slide into his lap and they’d see where things went.

  That was never very far.

  When the world started rotting from the inside, with the fevers and the biohazard signs everywhere, Beth forgot about smoking. She forgot about her school dance, her bake sale, her babysitting job, her promise to Jimmy they’d try to sneak out by the lake, all of it seemed so stupid, so trivial. She did all she could, but slowly she wasn’t allowed to leave the house. She was kept away from the thick of it, with her family, and Otis, and Jimmy. She was so busy adjusting to the people who rolled up to her home, she didn’t stop to think it all through. The people in the barn were ill, and beyond help. Her father said they could be helped, sure, but it had been a rotted caramel apple.

  By the time Beth smoked next, they had settled at the prison, and she wasn’t with Judith all the time. She was meeting all the new people from Woodbury, and an older boy with a straight nose and dark eyes gave her a smile she couldn’t ignore. Beth introduced herself, washing in her arms, a smile on her lips. She had never been one to feign shyness, and had taken it upon herself to get to know him. They shared stories and talked about their time before the prison, and maybe her stomach fluttered a little when he’d get too close. 

  One day in the courtyard, Beth had playfully snatched away Zach’s cigarette. Their knuckles brushed, their eyes locked and it was like her time on the porch with Jimmy all over again. The smell of smoke was reassuring to her, as it reminded her of her grandfather, and of Jimmy, and now of Zach. He didn’t smoke around her, but sometimes she would catch him by surprise. Zach got used to her approach, and had offered the cigarette, but they were kissing instead, and it fell to the wayside. Beth didn’t smoke every time she saw him, but she didn’t mind if he did. It tasted better than whatever she had been eating before, and it was familiar. Her lips would curl at the taste, relishing the edge. It reminded her of someone older, more refined, who could drive, and wore nice clothes, and treated her right.

  Smoke was in her eyes, her hair, her lungs, and people were screaming. Her ears were stuffed full of cotton, for all she could hear. The punch of gunfire had taken away her ability to hear, and she was furious, and devastated, and so she followed Daryl. They had ran, and foraged, and ran some more, and eventually they took to quiet nights staring at the fire. It was then she realized that Daryl smoked, but it wasn’t the same. When Daryl smoked, it wasn’t a social thing. She couldn’t lean across to pinch it off him, and he didn’t offer it to her. He sat far away from her, and she had no interest in asking for a puff. After the prison, and the farm, smoke was becoming an omen of death. It had always been that, and she had failed to recognize that.

  The moonshine cabin taught her that drinking made you incredibly prone to smoking. They had fought, all teeth and nails and anger, and now they were drunk. Daryl had kept knocking back the moonshine, and Beth tried to keep pace. She wasn’t one to drink. She was a good girl. But a lot had changed in the year -- or two -- since her father had scolded her for sneaking a wine cooler in her backpack. It hadn’t even been hers, but he didn’t care. She swilled down the disgusting and light fluid, fire running through her veins. The little shack was a piece of crap. It smelled, and had so many cigarette butts, she kept finding them in her hair. There was ash in the carpet, and piss on the walls. She hated it.

  Daryl didn’t react when she snatched the cigarette from between his fingertips. He had snuck outside to smoke, onto the porch, likely out of respect for her. But the truth was, her lungs were as blackened and bruised and done as they would ever be. She had inhaled worse than cigarette smoke. She had seen bodies burn, breathed in the ash of dead friends, and a stupid little stick of tobacco wasn’t going to make her ill. If he has an opinion, it’s locked down like everything else about him. Beth can’t care anymore. She finishes the cigarette, no giggles, no sweetness, no soft touches, no kisses against her neck. This is what people smoked for. It gave her something to do, it lit up her insides, and she was happy. 

  And then Daryl spoke. And he kept speaking. It occurred to her that before, the boys had been intimate with her. They had brushed at her hair, kissed her throat and touched her waist, but she knew little else about them. She knew how they felt and tasted and smelled, but not much else. She got their stories, and they exchanged dreams, but it wasn’t like this. Daryl was physically distant, but she could feel the heat of his gaze and the pressure of his presence. His words were infrequent and mumbled, but suddenly precious to her. She finished the cigarette she had stolen from him, ignoring the girlish giggle of ‘indirect kiss’. Beth stubbed it out and flicked it into the house. The ugly little house full of anger and piss.

  We should burn it down.

  The forest was becoming comfortable to her. In the following weeks she breathed deeper, demanded lessons, and got to know Daryl. She didn’t steal another cigarette from him. Instead, he would pop his wrist in her direction and she would steal a puff. Just one. Just a little. It wasn’t enough for her to count, but it was the thought behind it. She wondered why he hadn’t offered to begin with, but didn’t ask. Whatever answer he had wouldn’t match with what she wanted to hear. She would be too young, or too pure, or too innocent, or too dumb, or some other nonsense. They’d both killed people, directly and indirectly. She was a pure as the muck on her shoe, or the smoke that clung to her tongue. Daryl smiled at her, eyebrow raised, and she felt electric. She raised her head a little higher, cocky and proud. And then an hour later she went feet first into a bear trap.

  The funeral home was eerily similar to Jimmy’s home. The porch was the same white, and there were big windows and sloping roofs. She didn’t say as much. It was somewhere to rest her ankle, and it was somewhere they could be safe. Beth lit the candles, and enjoyed the vanilla scent. The fire warmed her nose and fingertips, and she sung. Her voice was shaky from disuse, but she could string the sounds together. Daryl was usually smoking off on his own, or brooding, but he stepped into the doorway of the room she had lit up, and she smiled. The coffin was disconcerting, but at least he was comfortable. She wanted to climb in there and soak up the smell of leather and smoke, but she didn’t.

  The car she was stuck in tasted like stale smoke and whiskey, suffocating and upsetting.

  Smoking was forbidden inside the hospital, you must go to the roof, and she hadn’t the faintest interest in owing them for a single thing. It wasn’t like she smoked for herself. It was a social thing, with boys she liked. Beth lost her stomach when that thought hit her. She didn’t have any time to process that, too focused on escaping. She could protect herself, she was strong, and she didn’t need their damn help.

  Smoke.

  Beth could smell smoke. Everything was black and worn and weathered, and she couldn’t feel her hands or feet, and she felt too warm and freezing all at once. Something smell like copper, smoke and seared flesh, and something she couldn’t place. Her head was weighted by heavy bandages, and she could remember a bang. She sat up, vaguely ill. She wanted to be outside, but she kept waking up in this hospital. In the corner of the room there was a rustle, and then arms, and sweat, and warmth, and smoke. She knew without looking who was wrapped around her, and all she could think was prayers, and thank yous.

  Alexandria was very sweet. It was light and friendly and everyone wore nice clothes. It was the sort of place Beth might have lived with Jimmy, or Zach. She can’t even see her scars when she squints into the mirror, or if she wears her hair just so. She works in the kitchen and helps make the meals, and takes care of Judith. On the days she has to herself, wholly her own, she goes to Daryl. She isn’t apologetic in this path, and she doesn’t really care what people think. He doesn’t mind her there, so far as she can tell. He hasn’t told her to fuck off, and Beth counts that as a win.

  Daryl heard her approach and offered out the cigarette, and she accepted, knuckles brushing, eyes locking, and she wants to see if kissing a man is as good as she remembers. But she doesn’t. She steps closer, politely puffing and then passing it back to him. He accepts it back, and their hands linger, and she doesn’t know when she lost her nerve. Might have been when the conversation at the funeral home never resolved itself, or when she had taken the bullet to her head.

  The smoke was familiar, the touches were infrequent, but Beth was working on it.

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about how Daryl smokes, and got to wondering what Beth would think of that. While part of me fully believes Beth would be turned off or away from smoking, I decided to examine the habit from a different perspective. Some people are actively against smoking for the health risks, but in a zombie survival situation... Yes, it messes up your lungs, but things are a bit different and cigarettes are a total luxury. I don't think Beth would smoke, but this was just a little exercise in 'what if she did?'. It also served as a coming-of-age thing in Daryl's eyes, because it kicked him and made him realize that she isn't a kid. I tried to fit it into the show, and not stick them smoking into scenarios that they canonically did not smoke in.
> 
> Also, she survived the headshot in Grady.


End file.
